Inside My Head
by WrensNest
Summary: I want to keep you locked away inside my chest, feel your wings beating against my ribs. Hear your song echoing in my throat. I want you to build a nest between my lungs and let me hold you tight and kiss your hollow bones.
1. Chapter 1

3:10am. Sherlock Holmes lies in bed with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He had never been a good sleeper, not even in childhood, and as he got older it just got worse. Nights were often spent throwing darts at his wall or reading a book. Maybe even doing homework, if all else fails to bore him.

With a groan, Sherlock kicks his duvet to the bottom of the bed and reluctantly sits himself up and tiredly rolls his eyes around his plain, boring bedroom. Asleep in the corner was his dog, Einstein, a pug that was given to him for his sixteenth birthday last year. He had never bonded with the mutt, much to the disappointment of his father, who seemed to love the thing. Swinging his legs over, he placed his feet gently on the wooden floorboards, so as not to make any noise, then he slowly stood up, wincing as he heard his knees cracking.

Creeping over to the window, Sherlock peers out into the cold dark night and takes in the beauty of it all. Street lights shone in windows, sparkling like fairy lights. Snow fell, mimicking a feather, as it made its way to earth. Sherlock rested his forehead against the cool glass and watched as his breath steamed up the window.

A movement, in the corner of his eye, drew his attention to the large mulberry tree that stood bravely at the entrance to his garden, and for a moment Sherlock could have sworn he had seen a bird.

Stepping out into the cool night air, Sherlock pulls his jackcket tighter around him. Taking a deep breath, he took a few steps forward, towards the small bird-bath that had long since frozen over. Looking around, Sherlock let out a puff of breath that rose like smoke to the sky. Behind him, a branch snapped and Sherlock spun around, expecting to see his mother or his sister stood there with a disapproving look on her face, lecturing him about being out in the cold without a jumper. Instead, he sees a man.

He's not too tall and not too short, to Sherlock he seems to be no more than a dream, a shadow in the night, but when said shadow moved, Sherlock knew he wasn't dreaming. He stands, watching and waiting to see what move Sherlock will make. Sherlock, in turn, stares, wide-eyed, barely breathing. As they examine each other, waiting, the noise that is made is miniscule – like a feather falling to its death. His beady black eyes, fixed upon Sherlock's, inspect him – as a detective inspects a crime. Invading his thoughts – with a sudden jolt, he dashes towards the mulberry tree, making a running jump, spreading his mighty black wings and catching a gust of wind that appears to have come at just the right time; soaring high above the earth, he doesn't make a single attempt to turn back and see the stranger whose mind he had so easily invaded, opening him up to the world only to leave him standing there – stunned and exposed.

_I awake in a white room, void of people, and void of furniture save a bed, a fluid-bag stand, and a simple shelf with a heart monitor. I'm in a hospital, but one unlike any I've ever been in before. My arm is hooked to a bag of clear liquid and my chest to a monitor. Beep, beep, beep. Normal. I examine my surroundings: four opaque white walls, an opaque white ceiling, and an opaque white floor. The entire room seems to be emanating light on its own, as if everything is light and darkness doesn't exist here._

_I try to sit up, but I appear to be strapped down. But, why? I think. Why am I here? Once again I look around, a small trace of panic beginning to arise in my stomach. The windows, the doors, even the smell, screams danger. I lift my head and look down at my feet, and I see a small boy peering in at me. This boy looks sad, agitated and scared. He glares at me with big grey eyes, and lifts a finger to his lips, as if telling me to be quiet. I simply watch and wait until he turns and starts to walk away. He seemed eerily familiar, and I couldn't help thinking I'd seen him somewhere before. _

"If I was in his shoes, I'd be pouring some gin into a mug, taking small sips and wondering how the fuck life got this crazy, this dramatic." Sherlock sits at the kitchen table at 9am, sipping from a mug of hot chocolate and nibbling on a piece of toast. "Then I'd get pissed at myself for thinking life was dramatic at all as everyone always says 'Oh don't be melodramatic!' What a farce that is. No one lives in your head but you and how do they know how you feel?" He had been listening to his sister babbling on for fifteen minutes now. The usual Monday morning drama.

Dropping his toast onto his plate, Sherlock slid his chair away from the table and stood up, fixing his tie as he moved. 'Mum, I'm off!' he called out, as he headed for the back door, throwing it open just in time to spot his neighbour, Greg, opening the gate and walking up the path towards him.

'Whoa, you look rough, mate!' Greg calls from the other end of the garden. 'Bad night?'

'Uh, yeah. Yeah, something like that.'

Sherlock jogged to catch up with his friend.

'Just nightmares. You know?'

Greg just laughs. Of course he knows, everybody does. He's been the school laughing stock time and time again, ever since that day when he fell asleep in class and woke up screaming. He'd never live that one down.

'Right, well. How's your project going?'

Sherlock sighs. 'I have a lot more to learn.'

'You do? But I thought you knew _everything_.' Greg mocks, poking Sherlock in the shoulder.

'I thought I already knew enough, I had everything all planned out, and then it all fell apart. I ripped it up, and now I don't even know where to begin again.'

As they reach the school gates, Greg says his goodbyes and rushes off towards his friends, his 'real' friends. Not that he and Greg weren't, of course. But Greg didn't like being seen with Sherlock in public. It was a popularity thing, you see. At home, Sherlock was fine to hang out with: he was fun, he loved computer games and he was a good listener. But at school, he was a loser. He ate alone at lunch, he was locked in cupboards and he was beaten up on a regular basis. In short, he wasn't the most popular guy around, and Greg knew that being seen with him in School was social suicide.

Pushing through the front entrance to the school, Sherlock paused and looked around. Yet another day in this hell, he thought, as he made his way through the corridor. He walks and he walks and all he hears are whispers, snippets of conversations that are probably about him. He turns to say something, to reply to the comments, but their steely eyes target him, following his every move, critiquing the way he walks, his bright red hair, his old, raggedy clothes, anything they can think of. Sherlock tries to ignore the murmurs by walking taller and faster. He tries to emulate in confidence, but it backfires on him when his shoe catches on a break in the ground. He trips, and tumbles to the floor, scraping his knees and hands and banging his head on the concrete. Laughter fills the halls, surrounding him. He stands up, sweating and itching all over.

'I have to get out of here.' He mumbles, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks.

Sherlock stands up, straightens his back and starts walking, his pace quick. He focuses his gaze on the door, the floor, the ceiling, anything but their faces. He focuses on the way the tiled floor holds the fluorescent light on it's surface. He focuses on the yellowing walls that are slick with perspiration. Pen marks and obscenities scratched on its surface. he focuses on the cracks covering the wall, holding the schools empty and unsuccessful history in it's crevices.

He turns right and walks into his first class of the day: Latin. The room was half full of his classmates, most of whom were sat in the front rows, chatting to their friends of doodling in their exercise books. Silently, Sherlock made his way towards the back of the room, trying not to be noticed.

"Freak!" someone calls from the other end of the room. Laughter erupts once more, blasting Sherlock's eardrums, and he ignores it as he takes his seat at the back of the class, away from the peering and judging eyes of his classmates.


	2. Chapter 2

_I walk into the room full of bored teenagers and walk, nervously, over to the woman stood at the front of the class. Mrs. Greenie, if I remember correctly. She's an awfully large woman, with greasy brown hair and glasses that are far too big for her face. Handing her the note, I step back and let her read, eagerly hoping that she'll just let me take my seat, and nothing more. But when has luck ever been on my side?_

'_Listen up, class.' She says, in a strong Irish accent, banging a stick against the edge of her desk. Two dozen pairs of eyes look up from their desks and at me, the new boy. Short, frumpy and blonde, I'm hardly interesting enough to keep their attention, right? I think, while scanning the faces with my eyes. _

'_This is John, he's new.'_

_From somewhere in the middle of the sea of faces, a boy whispered 'Obviously', and another laughed. _

'_Ummm, there's a seat at the back for 'ya, John.' Mrs. Greenie said, pointing to a row of empty seats next to the windows. Well, they would be empty if it weren't for the lone figure that sat hunched over in the corner. Keeping his head down, I made my way to the back and sat down in a seat at the opposite end of the room, as far from anybody else as I possibly could, and dropped my bag onto the empty chair next to me. _

Straightening up in his chair, Sherlock neatened the notebook in front of him, and then the pencils that lay to the left of said book. Leaning back, he folded his arms across his chest and stared at the back of the boy in front of him. One Sebastian Moran, the worst kind of bully you could possibly meet in high school. He spend his days teasing the younger kids, pushing them over and stealing their lunch money, before turning on the weaker ones from his year. Like Jack, for instance. Jack seemed to be his favourite to pick on.

The sound of the door opening drew his attention, and he turned his head, expecting to see the headmaster of another student, handing in a note. But he didn't. He saw a boy. A blonde boy dressed in scruffy jeans and a leather jacket, a boy who clearly didn't know the dress code. As the teacher talked, Sherlock scanned his face, sure that he recognised him from somewhere, but not sure if he _actually _did. He guessed it was just one of those moments, but as the boy turned his head and looked at him, Sherlock saw a flash of black, and a shimmer of white, flash past his eyes.

_I turn my head and glance to the left, to the pale-skinned boy with the black hair. He looks familiar, and I can't quite remember where it is that I've seen him before, but I vaguely remember that it was not long ago. I pull two notebooks from my bag, along with two pans, one black, one blue, and a pencil. As I'm setting these things on my desk, the boy in front of me turns around._

'_Who're you?' he asks, a stupid grin on his face. _

'_John. John Watson.' I reply, as I slip my mobile from my pocket and place it on the desk next to the notebooks._

'_Where'r ya from? Ya sound posh.' The boy says, with a chuckle. _

'_London' _

'_London? Sounds boring. Why'd ya move?'_

_I ignore the question, as I flip open one of the notebooks and pick up the pencil. Leaning back in my chair, I lean the book against the table and start sketching out a face._

'_Hey! I'm talking to you!' the boy says, a tad aggressively. I look up._

'_And I'm ignoring you!' I reply, in almost the exact same tone of voice. The boy scowls and turns back around in his seat, whispering something to the boy sat next to him. I look to the left once again and see that I'm being watched. Looking back down, I continue to draw._


End file.
